Decay
by Kandakicksass
Summary: "He wants to laugh through his pain instead of cry, but he can't. Instead he does neither, and locks it inside." Harry visits the empty shell of the place that had once been home to the man he loved. It hurts more than he thought it would. Major angst, implied Drarry, post-character death. Possible continuation.


**So, since apparently I'm much better with shorter ficlets during long bouts of writer's block, here we go. **

Harry Potter wanders up a long entryway, through hedges whose grooming had long ago been halted. His trainers leave almost no sound against the ground as he walks and he can scarcely bring himself to breathe lest he ruin the silence. He almost wishes that breaking the silence would make this whole vision disappear, relight the windows with life from within.

It doesn't. The windows, several broken and all dark, remain empty.

He reaches the front doors and hesitates, extending a hand and touching the cool metal of the handle. He'd visited once before, but he hadn't gotten this far. The wards have fallen since. He almost manages a rueful smile; they served little purpose, after all, with nothing to protect. It hadn't stopped the pain when he'd realized that there was no one left to let him in, though. They never had gotten around to keying him in, he thinks. He wants to laugh through his pain instead of cry, but he can't. Instead he does neither, and locks it inside.

He hears the whistle of wind, adding an underlying level to the ghostliness this place has. He looked over his shoulder, frowning. The silence has been broken, but the image of the desolate building remains. He lets out a deep breath. It's a sad sound.

He opens the door, almost surprised that it opened so easily. He shouldn't be. No one has inhabited this place in years.

As he steps inside, he thinks about how frightening it is, that only a few years – both short and excruciatingly long at the same time – could reduce such a grand, beautiful building to _this._ He eyes the fallen brick, the filthy floor, the creaking of it as it stands, alone and cold, as it has for too long. There is no one to take care of it now and the years are finally taking their toll. Perhaps that is why it looks so worse for wear, the long years catching up with it and adding to the damage.

He's sure the mansion is structurally sound; he might not be here otherwise, though he can't be sure. He's been itching to walk its halls since its abandonment had been officiated. In spite of buying the entirety of the property the minute it had gone for sale – and he can't help but think how horrible it is that this place, of all places, had been up for _sale_ when it hadn't been for sale since its completion – he hadn't stepped foot into it since before it had become empty.

It wasn't _really_ empty, not really – there was furniture and grand chandeliers and a piano in a room he could see out of the corner of his eye. Everything was how it had been left when its owners had vanished off of the face of the planet.

His wandering leads him into what he can only assume is the family room. There are arm chairs he's sure were once very comfortable – they are covered in grime, unattended for longer than he's sure they had ever been before – sitting in front of a fireplace. When he steps it, a fire lights itself. He knows it's a magical fire, but he can't help but balk for a mere moment before calming and sighing sadly.

The portraits on the wall are quiet, all watching his entrance with glances that give nothing away. They don't know what he's here for and neither does he. He can't blame them for being wary. It kills him to see them the way they are now, in good need of repair and upkeep. He can't help but want to leave everything untouched, but perhaps it's too late for that. Time has touched this place and ruined the illusion of perfection it had held before.

"You should leave here, boy," a blonde man in his mid-forties says quietly from his perch. He sits on a painted representation of a once-lovely green chair that Harry could reach out and touch now, if he weren't too frightened of connecting with anything.

Harry's eyes flickered to the name on the frame, then back up. He already knew his identity, but he feels like he should get a confirmation because everything else is so different. He looks so like his grandson and the resemblance makes Harry's heart ache.

"Do you know what happened to them?" he asks, feeling like his voice was creating a disturbance in the already disturbed building.

He shakes his head. "No one does, boy." He pauses, then says thoughtfully, "You remind me of someone. Charlus." He gives a smile that's so familiar Harry can't help but swallow. "Are you a Potter, boy?"

Harry nods, not trusting himself to speak. Once upon a time, the portrait's aparent short-term memory loss had been funny. Now, it was only haunting of a lost time.

"We haven't had a Potter in this house for too long," the portrait tells him with that smile still firmly in place. "My son was not very fond of the family, and then… well, I suppose you know what happened. It's strange to think about it. I grew up with Charlus Potter. In spite of the house differences… we were almost friends."

"I was almost friends with your grandson," Harry says softly, his voice catching in his throat. "He mentioned you, often. He was fond of you." He decided not to tell him that they'd met before – as much as a portrait and a man could 'meet'.

The smile the blonde gave him was proud. "I did love that child. Affectionate boy." He glanced over at the other portraits, wincing when he caught their blank looks. Harry knew that they must be uncomfortable with his presence. They had never really accepted him; that had once been a source of amusement, too. Now it just sickened him. "You should go."

"I will," he answered truthfully. "I just have to see one room. His room, your grandson's. Do you mind?"

"I'm a portrait, young Potter," he snorts. "I've no real mind to speak of. Just hurry up." He paused, then called after him as Harry headed to the door, "Perhaps you could visit? Touch us up a bit, eh?"

Harry managed a small, sad smile. "I think that could be arranged. A touch up for the whole place is in order, really." His eyes strayed to the debris before he tore his eyes away and left, heading up stairs. Of the three floors, the room he was looking for was on the second and it didn't take him long to find.

He opened the door, forcing himself not to look down the rest of the hallway and see the destruction, see the cobwebs and darkness. He opened the door to the room he most desperately wanted to see, and found… nothing.

There was a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf, a vanity – wood that had seen better days and books that look half-destroyed already, the bed made for a master who will never lay in it again.

The house could be restored, perhaps even to its original beauty, and the gardens could be weeded. The paintings could be repaired and the halls can be cleaned. Candles can be lit again, he knows. All of that, he can take care of. But this room, and the other bedrooms, are empty of their inhabitants. He can bring the mansion back to life if he wants, but it would mean nothing without its true owners.

He walks in to the room, a few feet, to the dresser and lifts one of the few items left behind that sits on top of it. It's a picture of _them_, all three of them, smiling and waving at him. It's not a portrait and the people captured within will smile at wave at him unless it's destroyed. He almost considers it because the sight _hurts_, but he doesn't. He lifts it and presses a kiss to short blonde hair, wishing he could be kissing the real thing. He almost takes it with him, but resists, and sets it back down on the dresser. He has his own photos. Before he leaves, though, he lets his fingers brush down the length of it, over a familiar figure that he misses with every inch of his being.

Harry tightens his jaw, spins on his heel, and stalks back down the hallway to the entry and down the staircase. He almost hurries out of the building, shutting the door behind him. He hastens down the path, knowing he could apparate from the door and feeling wrong for even thinking of it. He prefers to pretend that nothing has changed, that the beautiful place still stands as it once did and the wards mark for him an apparition checkpoint he'd used so many times he can't bear to not use now.

He steps just outside the iron wrought gates and gives the building one last glance. It's cold and empty; there is nothing really left of his lover's home. The mansion is just a shell, and it hurts to look at.

He turns away from Malfoy Manor, and apparates.

**There may be more of this, but I really don't want a repeat of the _Angel _incident (I'm done-no I'm not, here's more-I'm really done this time-screw that have another chapter), so…**

**Kandakicksass**


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